Everybody Knows
by Le.Parapluie.de.Mycroft
Summary: It has been three years since the Fall, and John Watson is finally beginning to move on. But how can he be expected to keep moving forward if someone keeps pulling him back?
1. Prologue

_Gun shots. Bombs. Screaming—GET DOWN, JOHN! LEAVE THE BLOODY KID—Death. Blood. And pain. So much pain. All hell breaking loose._

_"We have to help them!" BOOM._

_"No, we have to GO—" Explosion. Sand flying everywhere. More screams. "Now!"_

_"His _family _is trapped in there! We can't just leave them!"_

_"John, stop! We have to!"_

_Helicopter flying overhead._

_"Their house is about to _explode_—we have to _get them out!_"_

_"I _will not_ let you go back in th—"_

_Gunshot._

_"NO!"_

_Thud. More dust. More blood. The wounded child staring at the corpse. With those eyes. Those poor, sad, scared, innocent eyes._

_"I'll save you, I'll save you… I promise… I'll save you…"_

_The helicopter landing._

_"John! JOHN! Get over here!"_

_"I can't leave him!"_

_"You have to!"_

_"NO! I won't! I can save him!"_

_"No, you can't!"_

_Arms pulling. Must resist. Child left on the ground. Staring with those eyes._

_"Yes—I—CAN!"_

_Explosion. House is in flames. Heat gushing out, debris flying everywhere._

_"LET'S MOVE!"_

_A shower of gunshots from behind. Dust being kicked up from each bullet. Coming closer…closer…_

_"NOW, JOHN!"_

_Those eyes._

_"I'm sorry."_

_Eyes._

_Running to the helicopter. Not looking back. Bullets zipping past. Nearly there—_

_The child's scream. No—_his_ scream._

_"JOHN!"_

_Pain._

_It stings. It hurts. It _burns_._

_Dear God, let me live._

John Watson thrashed violently under the duvet, the eyes of the child he was unable to save haunting his nightmares. The eyes were brown. Chocolate brown. Full of warmth. And so, _so_ sad.

_But now as the eyes bored into him, the sadness in them was shifting. Melting into something else entirely. Was it…resentment? Yes…and the child began to grin. An evil, twisted, malicious smile—_

_No._

_—And his skin began to turn fair—_

_No._

_—And he began to laugh. That cruel, iniquitous laugh that made John's hair stand on end._

_Please, no._

_"Oh, Johnny boy…" The Irish voice lilted, dragging out the words and sounding everywhere at once._

_Stop it._

_"Come and play, Johnny boy. I've got no one else now that Sherlock is—"_

_STOP IT NOW._

_"Oh, it seems I've touched a nerve. You really _are_ his little pet, aren't you? That's _adorable_."_

_Shut up._

_"My, my, Doctor Watson. Aren't _you _the defensive one today? Now, tell me this: if you are so protective, then why couldn't you save them? Why did you let them both _burn_?"_

_Just shut up._

_"The kid really did burn, didn't he? He went up in flames with the rest of his family because you were just too selfish to carry him. And Sherlock? Well, we both know what happened to him…"_

_"Goodbye, John."_

"SHERLOCK!"

John jolted upright in bed. His heart was racing, and cold sweat was streaming down his face. Instinctively he touched the scar on his shoulder from where the bullet had hit him. Decommissioned him. _Bloody karma_, he thought_. I could have saved them. I could have saved that kid. I could have saved Sh_— He took in a sharp breath; his leg was throbbing. The dull ache had come back after…the Fall.

Rays of moonlight shone down on John through the blinds of his window. As he lay back down, he covered his face with his hands and took several shaky breaths. A single tear leaked out of his eye and trickled down his face. He thought of the child's sad, brown eyes. He thought of Sherlock's icy blue ones.

"I should have _never _let you go."


	2. Chapter One: Zendagi Migzara

Life had become quite formulaic for John Watson: he got up, stretched his leg, had a shower, made the tea, went to work, came home, had dinner, watched crap telly, made more tea, and went to bed. Rinse, lather, repeat. It had been like this for the past few weeks—ever since his nightmares had started coming back. He just moved through his daily motions on autopilot, not really thinking about anything he was doing. His nightmares resurfacing had been the final straw to vacationing from Baker Street. Before that, he had been doing very well—or as well as could be expected, anyway—but ever since, he had taken up using his cane again, attending regular therapy sessions, and sleeping in his old flat rather than dwelling in the loneliness of 221b.

At first he promised Mrs. Hudson that he would only be spending the weekend there to get some 'fresh air.' But two days turned into two weeks, and two weeks turned into two months. In all honesty, he wasn't sure how his salary from the surgery was capable of paying both rents, but he didn't question it. He didn't question much of anything these days. He just woke up, stretched his leg, had a shower, made the tea, went to work, came home, had dinner, watched crap telly, made more tea, and went to bed.

And today was no different.

Just as usual, John woke up. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. _Of course. _Not enough time to fall back asleep but too much time to just lie there. If that wasn't the story of his life, he didn't know what was. Grudgingly, he decided to get the waking up bit over with and sat up.

Bad idea. His leg ached fiercely, and his vision blurred from changing positions too quickly. Another glance at the clock reassured that he had some time to kill. Maybe he should try some of that Reichian therapy***** after all…

With a huff, he carefully lay back down on his bed. He bent his legs and planted his feet a comfortable distance from his body so that his knees were in the air. He then laid his arms beside him, slightly bending his elbows. He stared up at the ceiling and tried to relax by taking deep, slow, rhythmic breaths.

_In…out…in…out_…

Initially he had been against this 'Reichian therapy' because it had reminded him too much of…well…Sherlock… But now that he was actually doing it, the only bad thing he could say about it was that, in order to get the 'best results' (as his therapist had guaranteed), he had to keep his eyes open the entire time, save blinking.

After a little over a quarter of an hour, John felt refreshed enough to try facing the day once more. Before he did so, he ended his therapy session with a 'spoken report' of the physical sensations he felt, just as his therapist had instructed him to do. "Let's see then… Eyes are tired, but that's to be expected, I guess. Leg feels much better—not as tight, for sure. Shoulder could use some work, but who's complaining… And…ego is bruised for having to talk to myself in an empty flat." He paused. "Right then… Guess I should get up now."

With that, he sat up again, this time much more slowly. ("Always move too slowly when practicing Reichian therapy.") For a minute he sat on the edge of his bed, feet hovering above the floor. He sighed. This was it. The moment that his feet touched the floor, going on with his daily routine would become inevitable. He stared hatefully down at the floorboards. It was all a bit pointless, really—getting up, going to work, eating—in the grand scheme of things, did any of it really matter?

_No, John, _the doctor in him scolded. _The last thing you need right now is to have an existential crisis._

He sighed. He knew the voice in his head was right. "Yeah, I s'pose so," he responded out loud, and he slid off of the bed.

Before padding off to the bathroom, he stopped by his desk. On it rested a small, peel-off calendar riddled with Afghan proverbs. Mrs. Hudson had recently gotten it for him as a birthday present. Despite the somber and terrible memories he had of the war and of being stationed in Afghanistan in the heat of battle, he really did appreciate the Afghan culture and was transfixed by how much knowledge and beauty a simple poem or proverb could hold.

He peeled off yesterday's date ("_Tu ba ma, ma ba tu—You to me, and me to you"_) and read the proverb for today.

_Zendagi Migzara_, it read. _Life goes on._

John paused, yesterday's page crumpled in his hand. _How fitting_. Today marked the three year anniversary of Sherlock's death.

It wasn't as if he'd forgotten. How could one possibly forget the day his best friend committed suicide? That day had arguably been—no—that day _had _been the worst day of his life. Not even getting shot in the shoulder compared to the pain that welled inside his heart from losing the best man he'd ever known. But with work and therapy and the avoidance of 221b, John had seemed to slip away from reality and had finally begun to move past Sherlock's fall. He had busied himself with simple tasks—making tea, cleaning, yoga, even—anything to keep his mind off of that day. And so far it had worked. So far he had managed to fool himself into believing that he was doing well. That he was fine. But even after all of these days, weeks, _years,_ as he stared emptily at the proverb, he knew that he wasn't.

What was there to do, though? What choice did he have other than to keep moving forward, to keep pressing on? It wasn't logical to do anything else...

_Life goes on even if people refuse to..._

He tightened his fist around the crumpled paper and closed his eyes. _No._ He would not allow himself to do that. He would not allow himself to be reduced to nothing. John Watson was a soldier. He was strong. He had been waiting for three years.

It was time to move on.

* * *

A productive day at the surgery proved to be just what the doctor ordered. He'd helped eleven patients today, all of which left their appointments smiling. John was even smiling a little himself. It felt good to help people again. It felt good to be needed.

At the end of the day, he bid his coworkers goodnight, locked up his office, and walked out onto the London streets. To his disappointment, there had been an accident nearby, and traffic was completely at a standstill. Looks like he'd have to walk.

_No matter,_ _a bit of London air never hurt anyone._

He zipped up his jacket, gripped his cane, and started heading towards his flat.

It was only after he'd gone about three blocks that he noticed someone was following him.

While he waited for the 'pedestrian crossing' signal to flash at the next crosswalk, John discretely glanced over his shoulder to get a better look at the person pursuing him. It was a man, immaculately dressed despite the bitter December weather. And was he wearing sunglasses? Really? It was nearly half-past eight and dark, save the city lights. John shook his head and resumed walking as the signal changed.

_Posh_. _I can take him._

About one hundred feet before he reached the end of the next block, John noticed another immaculately dressed man. He was standing stiffly by the street and was watching the doctor walk toward him. This man looked identical to the man behind John who was much closer now.

_Okay, that's a bit weird... _

Wanting only a nice cuppa and to watch some crap telly, John turned down a side-street and continued on. But he only took two steps before he stopped cold.

"Oh, for God's—you have _got_ to be _kidding_ me," he said aloud.

A sleek, black car was parked in front of him, the door already open.

Just then, his phone pinged with a message alert.

_I trust you'll be joining me?_

_ M_

John pocketed his phone and looked over his shoulder. Both of the well-dressed men were standing at the mouth of the side-street. For a brief moment John considered attacking them; he knew he could take both of them if his leg wasn't acting up. But then again, he _was_ dealing with the British Government. His mobile pinged again.

_Get into the car, Doctor Watson._

_ M_

John sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was see Mycroft Holmes. But, he supposed, he still had a bone to pick with him.

He pocketed his mobile, got into the car, and closed the door. Then the car rolled silently off into the night.

* * *

*** Jack, Willis. ****_Reichian Therapy: The Technique, for Home Use_****. 3rd ed. N.p.: n.p., 2008. 6 Dec. 2008. Web. 19 July 2013.**


	3. Chapter Two: Calm, Young Eagle

John stormed through the posh-perfect doors of the Diogenes Club and into the equally posh government official's office. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Good evening to you as well, Doctor Watson." The elder Holmes brother was sitting behind his desk, buried in paperwork. His eyes didn't leave the document in front of him. "I presume your ride over was quite satisfactory?"

"Yes, creepy as always. Now what do you want?" John was more than annoyed. He hadn't talked to Mycroft Holmes in person since he'd found out that the elder Holmes had exploited information about Sherlock to Moriarty—the information that Moriarty had used to destroy him.

There was no response for a moment. Then, Mycroft pushed back the document he was scrutinizing and relaxed back in his chair, looking at John for the first time in years.

"Something that may be of interest to you has been brought to my attention." Mycroft looked tired. He had lines under his eyes, and his forehead was wrinkled from deep concentration. John guessed he hadn't slept much in the past couple of days.

"Well? Spit it out." He wasn't falling for dramatics.

Mycroft sniffed and then opened one of the drawers in his desk. Gingerly, he pulled out an envelope and shut the drawer. Without looking up he asked, "Do you remember Miss Irene Adler, also more professionally known as The Woman?"

Of course John remembered her—she was the dominatrix who had nearly brought Great Britain down on its knees. And she would have succeeded had her heart not gotten in the way. Her case had been the longest that he and Sherlock had worked on together. But all of that was irrelevant. Without her 'protection,' The Woman had been captured by a terrorist cell in Karachi and was beheaded almost immediately after the case had been closed.

"Yes, definitely. How could I forget?"

Mycroft twiddled the envelope in his hands. It had not been sealed; there was no tearing at the top. Clearly whatever was inside was meant to be read.

"On the night of the Bond Air fiasco, after you and Sherlock had departed, I was left in a difficult position." He paused. "I was left to decide what would become of Miss Adler." When John tried to interject, he held up a hand, and John fell silent. "From my vantage point, there were only two logical options available. The first was that she be held in captivity and a team of interrogators, myself included, would try to glean from her any additional information she had regarding national security. Naturally I could not do this because she would have eventually informed someone of my brother's position in the case—how he had cracked the airline code for her, which led to the terrorists finding out about our flight arrangement—and that would have been detrimental to the both of us, reputation and otherwise."

John shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "She would have spilled the beans, and the failure would have been traced back to you."

Mycroft nodded and stood up. "Precisely. The second option, which I elected to choosing, was to make Miss Adler something of a double agent—at least on paper."

John raised his eyebrow. He certainly hadn't expected to hear that. "A double agent?"

"Yes," Mycroft took a few steps out from behind his desk. "I was able to convince the authorities above that she would serve us well in this position. She certainly had the credentials: cleverness, power, available resources, attainable information—"

"Easily able to be blackmailed," John added.

Mycroft's lips quirked into a tight smile. "Quite. Doing this allowed her to be released into the world and left very little chance of exploitation of Sherlock and myself, as we took away her 'protection' by keeping her camera phone." He paused. "Rather, we transferred all of the information _off_ of her camera phone, and then the phone itself mysteriously vanished." He frowned at John, knowing exactly where the phone had gone.

John coughed. "Yes, well, sorry to hear that. Look, does this story actually have a point?"

The elder Holmes narrowed his eyes. "You may remember that I spoke to you briefly about Miss Adler's fate and suggested that either you or I tell Sherlock that she had been transported to America rather than burden him with the truth of her execution."

John nodded, remembering the conversation. "Yeah, I told him that. And he took it…surprisingly well."

"Indeed. A bit too well, perhaps."

It was John's turn to narrow his eyes. "What do you mean, Mycroft?"

The taller man regarded the envelope he was holding once more and then looked back up to John. "Miss Adler is alive."

John balked. "Sorry?"

"Irene Adler is alive," said Mycroft, simply.

"And how, exactly, do you know this?"

The government official raised his eyebrows. "She told me herself."

* * *

The crisp, England air was definitely a change from the warm, dry air of Pakistan. Serina Haytham bundled herself deeper into her coat. She missed the palm trees and the sand already.

Serina had just arrived in London on an eight-and-a-half hour flight from Karachi, and all that she wanted to do was check into a hotel and go to sleep. Unfortunately for her, that was not an option; she had important business to attend to.

As she stood outside of the Heathrow airport, shivering only slightly against the bitter December cold, she checked her mobile once again for the address.

_10 Carlton House Terrace  
London, SW1Y5 AH _

Once memorized, she pocketed her mobile and picked up her small bag. She then walked towards the curb where she looked out onto the street. The address was nearly 40 minutes away; she'd have to take a cab. Luckily there were not very many people loitering outside of the airport at ten o'clock at night. She was grateful for this, as it made the arduous task of hailing a cab substantially easier. Within two minutes, she was in the backseat of a cab and on her way to the Diogenes Club.

At approximately ten thirty-six, the cab pulled up to the affluent, cream-coloured building. Serina paid her fare, generously tipping the driver with a kiss on the cheek, and then stepped out onto the pavement. As the cab drove away, she entered the front door and asked the receptionist for Mr. Mycroft Holmes.

"Mr. Holmes is very busy at the moment," the receptionist, a well-to-do, older gentleman, informed her. "May I take a message?"

Serina smirked, not unkindly. "Ah, yes. Please tell him that The Woman would like to see him."

"Very well, madam. Please take a seat." The receptionist dialed Mycroft's office as Serina sat down on an expensive-looking loveseat. She examined herself with the mirror she kept in her clutch purse, eagerly listening in on the receptionist's conversation.

"Mr. Holmes—yes, I know that you are busy—but…The Woman would like to see you."

Silence.

Then a muffled response from the other line.

"I am not sure, Mr. Holmes. I asked to take a message, and that is what she told me."

Another muffled response.

"…Describe her, sir?" Serina looked up at the receptionist and winked cheekily. The respectable man swallowed. "Well…she is…spirited," he said as his face reddened.

_"Send her in," _Serina heard Mycroft's tinny voice say clearly through the phone.

The receptionist coughed. "Ahem…um…yes, sir." He hung up the phone and looked back at Serina who was smiling at him expectantly. He cleared his throat and tugged at his shirt collar. "Mr. Holmes will see you now."

Serina stood up and walked over to the desk. "Thank you, dear," she said and placed a kiss on the flustered man's cheek. Then she walked down the corridor to Mycroft's office, heels clicking officiously on the tiled floor.

At the end of the hall, she knocked twice on the door marked 'M. Holmes' and entered without waiting for a response from within. The British Government himself looked bemusedly up from his paperwork and into the eyes of Irene Adler. "Come in," he said monotonously. "Please."

Irene closed the door behind her. "Hello, Mr. Holmes. I bet you didn't expect to see me again."

Mycroft stared darkly at her. "No, I can't say that I did. Tell me, Miss Adler, how is it that you are still alive?"

"You really don't know?" Irene smirked to herself. "It was your baby brother. He saved me. I'm known as Serina Haytham***** now."

Mycroft scoffed. "That is impossible. He was under strict surveillance until the day he—" He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, a sudden realization hitting him. "The National Security Summit Conference," he stated slowly, irritated at himself for not piecing it together sooner. "I would have been tied up all week preparing speeches, attending seminars, choosing menus…" He opened his eyes. "That was the same week when you were supposedly executed, so Sherlock easily fled the country to come to your aid without my knowing."

The Woman smiled, amused at Mycroft's likeness to his brother. "Yes… Isn't it funny how things seem to work out?" Irene took a few steps forward. "May I sit?"

Mycroft gestured in the affirmative.

"You know, things aren't always as they seem, Mr. Holmes." Irene perched on the chair opposite the government official. "You can see something one day and be convinced that it is exactly how it appears to be, but then the next, everything you know can be wrong."

"Do go on," Mycroft said darkly.

"Well, you, for instance, thought that I had been dead for three and a half years. But tonight it just suddenly turns out that I am alive and well and have been living under a pseudonym in Pakistan for all of this time." Irene opened her clutch purse and pulled out an unsealed envelope, regarding it thoughtfully. "Your brother was rather kind to travel so far to rescue me. Over five thousand miles… I feel almost indebted to him."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Yes, well, there is very little you can do for him now."

Irene hummed, looking intriguingly down at the envelope. "Oh, but I think there may be something I _can_ do for him. And something for you, as well."

Mycroft raised an incredulous eyebrow. "And what, pray tell, would that be?"

The Woman smiled. "I can give you proof that Sherlock is alive."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "I sincerely doubt that."

Irene passed him the envelope. "Hmm…we'll see…" She watched as the elder Holmes opened the envelope and read through everything inside once, twice, a third time. She saw his eyes grow wide and beads of sweat beginning to form on his brow. She smiled, pleased with herself.

After several minutes, Mycroft lowered the documents onto his desk. "How did you obtain this information?" He asked quietly.

"I know some investigators… Or I know what they like." She replied with poise.

"Yes, but how did you find him? How did you know that he was not…dead?"

"Suicide didn't seem to me like a very Sherlock way to die. A bit of prodding around is all it took to find out, really. Of course, it wasn't me who was doing the prodding. I've been in Karachi all this time."

"I presume you have acquainted yourself with quite a few people, then." Mycroft deduced, not looking up from the documents that he was eyeing closely. "And of course you know what they like."

Irene laughed. "You presume correctly."

There was a pause before Mycroft stuffed all of the evidence back into the envelope. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and sighed. "What is it that you want?"

The Woman smiled. "Money," she said simply. "European money. And the information that you took from me a long time ago. My protection."

Mycroft considered The Woman. "In exchange for…?"

"Your brother. I know exactly where Sherlock will be in a week's time. If you provide me with both of my requests, I will tell you the city that Sherlock will be in as well as the date and time that he will be there."

Mycroft glowered at The Woman, mulling the decision over in his head. "Yes," he finally said. "I agree."

* * *

After he finished relating his account to John, Mycroft stared down at the envelope in his hands, considering the very essence of it. "Miss Adler is very much alive, Doctor Watson. And so is Sherlock."

Mycroft's voice echoed distantly in John's head. Time was standing still.

"No..." John said quietly, not daring to breathe, not daring to believe the words that were coming from Mycroft's mouth.

"Miss Adler provided me with sufficient evidence that Sherlock is, in fact, alive."

John shook his head. "But he can't be… I saw him—I took his pulse."

"Yes." Mycroft paused, looking wistfully at the envelope in his hands and then offering it to John. "I believe this will help to explain…"

John approached Mycroft and snatched the envelope out of his hands. He turned his back as he saw what was written on the front in blue ink.

_Sherlock Holmes_, it read. John's heart dropped.

With shaking fingers, John slowly lifted the lip of the envelope and pulled out the documents that were folded neatly inside. His heart began to beat quickly as he leafed through the papers. Recorded on them were sightings of Sherlock from all over the country—Dover, Birmingham, Liverpool, Oxford, Reading—and with each sighting there was a photograph of the consulting detective, proving to John that he really had been to all of the places listed. John took in all of the information as quickly as he could. His mind raced faster and faster. He couldn't believe what he was looking at—couldn't believe that it was real.

"When was this?" John croaked. "When did she come and see you?"

"A week ago today," Mycroft answered softly.

John turned around to face the elder Holmes. "So that means… It's tonight."

Mycroft nodded somberly. "Midnight, 52.42°N, 1.50°W—Coventry."

* * *

*** The name Irene is derived from the ancient Greek goddess Eirene whose name means 'peace,' and 'Adler' is Teutonic for 'eagle.' In this fanfic, Irene changes her name to Serina Haytham, which means 'calm, young eagle' in Arabic/Muslim culture. **


	4. Chapter Three: Coventry

The ride to Coventry was easily one of the most uncomfortable situations of John's life thus far. It was a two hour trip from the Diogenes Club, and every minute of it was filled with a biting nervousness that made John queasy. He had kept the envelope with him, though, stuffed inside his inner jacket pocket. For some reason, having it there offered him some reassurance, some hope, some protection. Without thinking, he brushed his hand against it as he stared vacantly out of the government car's window.

At this moment, John was grateful for Mycroft's affiliation with the government. When he wasn't being such a posh, poetic bastard, Mycroft was actually quite resourceful. Even at quarter 'til ten, he had somehow conjured a police escort to Coventry for he and John with the snap of his fingers. In fact, now that he thought about it, Mycroft had probably had a hand in that 'accident' near the surgery a few hours ago that had led to John's 'kidnapping.' He stole a glance at Mycroft to find that he was staring unappeasably down at his phone. _God, he likes to be dramatic._

John looked back out the window. Now that they were nearly there—in record time, thanks to Mycroft—John was getting all the more anxious. What was he supposed to say to Sherlock if—_when_—they found him? He couldn't very well get off with, "_Hey, mate, what've you been up to lately?" _Or, "_Oh, you're not dead! Cheers!" _If he was being completely honest with himself, John felt like he might want to punch the consulting detective in the face. And multiple times, at that. He would deserve it, after all, for having incessantly called the doctor an 'idiot' and subjecting him to all of his experiments and for getting him involved in all of those legal matters, and then, just when everything had been going fine, just when they were at the cusp of genuine friendship, he would deserve it for having ripped John's heart out and leaving the doctor for good.

_Or so I thought_, John immediately corrected himself. He sighed, closing his eyes. Whatever was going to happen tonight, the outcome would still be the same: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson would be reunited.

From his right, John heard a light cough escape from Mycroft, bringing him out of his thoughts. John opened his eyes and looked across the seat. The elder Holmes was staring at him, his expression unreadable in the dim light. When nothing was said, John prompted him.

"Yes?" he asked, slightly irritated.

The British Government sniffed. "Seeing as we are nearly there, I feel that I should entertain the small possibility that we might not be able to find Sherlock. I think you will agree that my brother is rather talented at hiding, especially when he does not wish to be found."

John nodded. That was a logical concern.

"However," Mycroft continued, "I do have every road leading into the city surrounded now. So if he should try to escape, he will, no doubt, be caught."

John's mouth twitched into a half-smile. "I'm surprised you haven't hacked their CCTV network yet."

Mycroft scoffed. "Don't be simple, Doctor Watson. I've had access to their network for a week, now. Why do you think I've been staring unremittingly at my phone for the past two hours?"

John bit back a laugh. "Angry Birds?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to retort, but before he could respond, the sleek, black car came to a halt. After turning on the overhead lights, the driver turned around and informed them that they were parked outside of a church in the village of Westwood Heath.

John swallowed. The suburb's name did not sit well with him. Just hearing the name 'Westwood' brought back less than desirable memories of the Pool and of being covered in Semtex so many years ago… The look in Sherlock's eye when John had stepped out from behind the locker… He shuddered slightly at the thought.

"What's the plan?" John asked.

"According to Miss Adler, Sherlock will be entering that church in precisely," Mycroft checked his fob watch, "six minutes. Once he is inside, we will surround the building, and both you and I—or, just you, if you prefer—will enter and confront him." Mycroft shifted in his seat. "Hopefully he will be in the right mind so that we won't have to drug him," he added as an afterthought.

"So we just sit here 'til he shows up? This car isn't exactly invisible, you know. Sherlock will recognize it. He might leave."

"Oh, I wouldn't be too worried about that."

John crossed his arms. "And why is that?"

Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek. "Apparently my brother has been travelling from church to church for the past several months."

"So? There are loads of other churches he could break into."

"Yes…but not many others by the name of St. John."

John paused then laughed aloud. "Wait, you're not trying to tell me that _Sherlock Holmes_, the _sociopath_, has only been breaking into churches with _my name _in them, are you? That's bloody ridiculous."

"Is it? Take another look at the documents in that envelope, Doctor Watson. In every picture, Sherlock is seen at a church, and, if you look closely, you will see that each of the churches has your name in theirs, or, if not your name, some relation to you. From this alone it is evident that there has been a distinct pattern influencing Sherlock's choosing of churches. Some might even call it sentiment."

John gawked at Mycroft for a moment before searching through the documents, this time looking past Sherlock and instead at the churches in the background. He couldn't believe what he was seeing: Sherlock at St. John's Church in Birmingham, Sherlock on the steps of St. John the Evangelist in Knotty Ash, Liverpool, Sherlock in the window of St. Mary and St. John in Oxford (_blimey, does he know about me fancying Mary?_), Sherlock at St. Mary's churches in Dover and Reading (_apparently yes…the bastard_).

"This _is _bloody ridiculous," John said again as he leafed through the remaining documents.

"Yes… And to think I once told him that caring is not an advantage…" Mycroft checked his watch again. "Sherlock should be arriving in approximately one minute. Miss Adler readily informed me that he has been entering through the back doors and windows, so we should be able to spot him without trouble."

John put all of the photographs and papers back into the envelope and tucked it back into his jacket pocket. "I hope so," he said as he touched the envelope one last time.

"Thirty seconds…" Mycroft informed.

John's nervousness was escalating exponentially. He had been waiting three years—thirty-six months. One hundred, fifty-six weeks. One thousand, ninety-five days—for this moment.

"Twenty…"

When everyone else had given up on the consulting detective, when everyone else had accepted him as a fake, when everyone else had forgotten, he had not.

"Ten…"

He had always believed in Sherlock Holmes.

"Five…"

Beads of sweat began to form on his brow.

"Four…"

His hands began to shake.

"Three…"

His eyes darted about wildly.

"Two…"

His heart thundered in his chest.

"One…"

He held his breath.

Mycroft closed his watch.

Together, they waited.

_Stillness._

And waited.

_Silence._

And waited.

The minutes crawled by, each second seeming like an eternity. John didn't dare blink for fear of missing a glimpse of the long lost detective.

Every so often, Mycroft checked his watch. _Half-past twelve. Quarter 'til one. One._

At last, when it was nearing two o'clock, Mycroft's phone buzzed. He took a deep breath as he stared at the message.

"He's not coming, John."

"Yes, he is. He will. We just have to wait."

"No, John. He's not. Look."

John looked at Mycroft. He was holding his mobile so that John could see what was illuminated on the screen. John's heart dropped as he scanned the message. It was a picture of a safe—an empty safe—and in it was a small, cream-coloured card with neat, blue writing on it. John had to squint to read the writing:

_Thank you, Mr. Holmes.  
xx_

"That is the hidden safe in my office," Mycroft said, pulling the phone away. "It contained ten thousand pounds."

John stared blankly at the government official. He didn't know what to say. The words coming out of Mycroft's mouth weren't making any sense.

"I don't understand," he said quietly, not trusting himself to say anything else.

Mycroft sighed sadly. "I've been robbed."

John swallowed. "No. No, that's not right."

"It is, John. I am sure."

"No—it's—NOT!"

Mycroft stared silently at the army doctor, a pained expression on his face.

"Sherlock will come. Sherlock ALWAYS comes. He might not want to see your pompous arse, but he WILL want to see ME." John grabbed the torch out of his jacket and climbed swiftly out of the car, leaving his cane behind.

"John, wait—" Mycroft was cut off by the slamming of the door.

Torch shining in the dark, December night, John took off for the cemetery behind the church. Everywhere he looked, he saw shadows of Sherlock running and silhouettes of his long, Belstaff coat trailing behind him. John shone the light maniacally, trying to freeze the movements around him, but the light reflected in the fog, blinding the doctor.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, wait!" John called as he stumbled sightlessly around the cemetery. "Please! Come ba—AH!" John ran into a tombstone with his bad leg and toppled to the ground.

He didn't even try to get up. He just lay there, praying that he would wake up in his bed and that this would all be a nightmare—a sick fabrication of his sub-conscious mind.

His leg throbbed beneath him, and he groaned. For the first time, he noticed that it was cold. He could feel the frost beginning to nip at his bare fingers, and he cringed as the icy wind bit his nose.

But he didn't care.

He would rather freeze to death than leave without finding his friend.

From behind him, he heard footsteps crunching on the fallen leaves. John squeezed his eyes shut. The footsteps were much too heavy to be Sherlock's. (Why did he let himself hope that they would be his?) As they grew closer, John felt the light of another torch on his eyelids. He flinched, despite the fact that his eyes were still closed.

The footsteps stopped about a foot from where John was lying. After a brief pause, Mycroft knelt down and placed a gloved hand on the doctor's shoulder.

"Come along, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said quietly, somewhat uncertain. "It is time to go."

John took a big breath, grateful for the cold air as it masked his tears and replenished his lungs. He rose slowly from the ground and took his cane from Mycroft.

Then they both trudged dismally to the car.


	5. Chapter Four: The Devil's Breath

All that Detective Inspector Lestrade wanted was to go home, knock back a beer or two, and go to bed. That was all.

Despite the fact that he'd been working the afternoon shift, it had been a long day at Scotland Yard. It had started with the wrapping of a case that he and his team had been working on for nearly two weeks now. The case had finally come to a close when Anderson had presented the missing evidence to the D.I. not more than twenty minutes after he'd checked in.

"Where did you find this, Anderson?" Lestrade had demanded of the forensic officer when he placed the broken top on the inspector's desk.

"My jacket pocket. I sort of took it at the crime scene 'cause it didn't look important."

Lestrade had been furious. "And how bloody long did it take you to realize that you'd stolen the evidence?!"

"Well…" the forensic officer had gulped, "you said yesterday that we were looking for something smooth and small that a child could play with."

"I've been saying that for _two weeks_, Anderson!"

"Well I—"

"Just get out."

"But—"

"Out!"

The day hadn't gotten much better following that. After several tedious phone calls and filling out the massive stack of paperwork necessary to close the case, Lestrade had then been forced to face the chief superintendent and explain to him why the simple case involving the top had taken so long. This wasn't the first time he'd been in this position, however. In the past several months, Lestrade's division had been increasingly slowing down in terms of the length of time it took to investigate, solve, and wrap each case. From what used to take a day and a half three years ago had since turned into a week and a half and was now leaning towards the better part of a fortnight per case. It was completely unacceptable, and Lestrade was having to get creative with his excuses.

"The top was in a secret compartment."

The chief had raised an eyebrow. "I've never heard of a toy box with a 'secret compartment' before."

"Yeah…they're all the rage with the kids…" Lestrade had trailed off. Then a sudden inspiration had hit him. "My daughter has one, in fact. They're built so that the front board is thicker than the surrounding boards, and so that way—"

"Yes, all _right_, Inspector. Just be more thorough next time."

Lestrade had coughed. "Yes…um…of course."

By the time he'd finished his confrontation with the chief and had worked through another pile of paperwork that Donovan had dropped off, it was nearly eight o'clock.

_Thank God_. _Only twenty-five more minutes._

With the last few minutes he'd thought that he might as well do something productive, so he had browsed the internet for Christmas presents. He didn't have many people to buy for—just the wife, his daughter, and John—but at least now he didn't have to worry about a certain consulting detective blowing up or experimenting on whatever he gave him. Smiling grimly to himself, Lestrade had decided to buy both his daughter and John two presents each. (_The wife won't mind getting just one…_)

While he was bidding on an easel for his daughter, Donovan had burst into his office.

"Sir, there's been a wreck a block down from Redcliffe Surgery."

Lestrade had looked at the clock. _Five bloody minutes._ "You know that's not our division, Donovan."

She had stuck out her hip, waving her radio in retaliation. "It is now. The Chief says we'll be canned if we don't solve something soon."

_For Christ's sake_—

"But there's nothing to solve!" Lestrade had sighed tiredly and rubbed his forehead, not for the first or last time that evening. "Alright," he finally said, giving in. The D.I. stood up from his chair, grabbing his coat. "Let's get this over with."

Fifteen minutes later had seen the grumpy detective inspector at the scene of the wreck, which had occurred at the intersection of Redcliffe Street and Finborough Road. Somehow he had gotten Anderson to make sure that A3220 be blocked off at Cathcart Road and that a detour be issued to avoid congestion on the major street. Unfortunately, though, congestion was inevitable, and traffic had come to a standstill anyway.

As he made his way over to the offending drivers, Lestrade had distantly hoped that John had worked the early shift at the surgery. If not, he was going to have a hell of a time of getting home.

"What happened here?" he had cantankerously asked the drivers as he pulled out his notebook and pen.

"It appears to me that this man doesn't know the meaning of 'one-way.'" Lestrade had glanced up at the speaker. He sounded too much like a Holmes for his liking. But even though the man was wearing a suit, he was much thinner and younger than the government official, and he obviously was not the late detective.

" 's'not my fault the streets aren't clearly marked," the other driver had refuted with an accent.

_American_. _God help me_, Lestrade thought to himself. This man was dressed nicely but much more casually than the first man.

Lestrade looked the two men over; neither of them was seriously injured, nor did they have many cuts or bruises between them. Their cars didn't look in too bad a shape, either—in fact, they looked new, save for the dents and slightly cracked headlights. Lestrade had rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Alright, well, if you two are both OK, then this will be easy." He pointed to the casually dressed man. "Going the wrong way down a road is a one hundred quid fine."

The American gawked. "I don't have a hundred quid! I don't even know what a 'quid' is!"

"Then you shouldn't have driven the wrong way down the road."

"But I couldn't see the sign!"

Lestrade sighed: arguing was only going to prevent him from getting home and going to bed. "'Quid' is vernacular for 'pound,'" he said. "Show me where you got onto the road, and I'll see for myself about the sign."

Grudgingly the American man had taken Lestrade to the intersection off Ilfield Road***** from which he had turned. The one-way sign was there, but it was partially concealed by a moving van parked outside of a shop that was relocating. Wanting to wrap up the situation, Lestrade had agreed that the sign would have been difficult to see in the dark, especially to a non-native, and so he lowered the fine to fifty quid. He then rapped on the shop's door that the van was parked outside of and asked the elderly man inside to move the van. (He wasn't in the mood to fine an older gentleman, though he knew that he really should.)

After dealing with all of this, the D.I. finalized his statements from each of the two men and sent Donovan around to collect the rest of the team. When he finally got into his car, he checked his mobile for the time and huffed jadedly. It was ten o'clock.

As soon as he got back to the Yard, Lestrade wasted no time in filing the papers from the wreck. (Rather, he wasted no time in giving everything to Donovan so that _she _could file all of the papers from the wreck. Filing was definitely not his division, though he wasn't really sure what was anymore.) He then walked into his office to lock up and accidently bumped into the computer, causing it to wake up. He glanced at the screen and scoffed. Apparently he had lost the bid on the easel for his daughter. That figured. He shut the computer down, turned out the lights, locked the door, and headed out to his sedan.

Two and a half hours later, the D.I. had returned home and had gone to bed. He had been asleep for almost forty-five minutes when his mobile rang on his bedside table, waking him. With a groan, he reached out and blindly patted the table in search of his phone. When he found it, he put it on speaker to save himself the trouble of bringing it up to his ear.

"What is it?" he asked in the least goaded voice he could manage.

"Sir," Donovan's tinny voice came through the phone, "there's been a robbery—"

"For Christ's sake, Sally, can't it wait 'til tomorrow?"

"No, sir. Ten thousand pounds was stolen."

Lestrade sat up in bed and held the phone up to his mouth, suddenly awake. "Where?" he asked.

Sally responded unwaveringly. "The Diogenes Club."

* * *

If the ride to Coventry had been uncomfortable, there weren't words to describe the ride coming home. John had stared emptily out of the window the entire time. He had watched as the lights of the city streaked past in blurs, not really aware of anything except for Mycroft's angry phone calls and rapid-fire texts. But even as the British Government had sat fuming beside him, John had felt nothing. He was completely numb. And his mind was empty, save for one word.

_Sherlock…_

At quarter 'til four in the morning, they finally returned to the Diogenes Club. By then, most of the commotion had simmered down, and there were only a few police cars sitting outside as well as a black sedan. Thankfully, it seemed that the press had been shooed away. Perhaps they hadn't even been informed of the incident; Mycroft did have a talent of keeping these matters very hush, hush.

As the chauffeur pulled the car up to the front of the Diogenes Club to let John and Mycroft out, a man stepped outside of the building and waited for the doctor and the government official by the door. John looked up at the man and was distantly comforted to see that it was none other than Detective Inspector Lestrade. Since the Fall, he and the inspector had only met sporadically throughout the years—for birthdays, Christmas, that sort of thing. It was a rare occasion that the two would go out for a beer, mostly because John would keep putting it off, but when they did, they always talked about Sherlock: the things he did, the things he said, all of the memories that they had of him, good or bad. Lestrade was the only person that John could trust now, other than Mrs. Hudson, of course.

A dog barked faintly in the background as Lestrade watched John slam the door behind him and follow Mycroft up the steps to the Diogenes Club. After Mycroft passed, the detective inspector stepped out from the shadows of the doorway and blocked John's path. "Hey," he said gruffly. But John didn't respond; he was back on autopilot, focusing solely on nothing. The ex-army doctor didn't even look Lestrade in the eye as he brushed passed him and entered the building. Bearing down on his cane, his legs just carried him down the hall while all around him he could hear voices—soft, loud, sad, angry—but the words being spoken were completely unintelligible. From behind him, he heard a voice saying his name.

_John, _it called. _John!_

He ignored it.

_John, _listen_ to me!_

It wasn't important.

_Please!_

Nothing was important.

Suddenly a firm hand clamped down on the doctor's shoulder and spun him around. He was now inches away from the detective inspector, who was glaring fiercely at him.

"Tell me what happened." It wasn't a question. Lestrade was tired. Lestrade was angry. Lestrade was wishing that he could go home and forget about this whole day.

But so was John. And if Lestrade really wanted him to elaborate, he might as well oblige.

John shrugged the inspector's hand off of his shoulder. "I let my guard down for one minute," he said. "And in that time, The Woman came back from the dead, Mycroft was robbed, and my heart was broken. Happy?"

Lestrade's expression of ferocity softened into one of sorrow. He couldn't imagine what John had been through—frankly, he didn't even want to make John tell him—but he had to know. He glanced around them. People were beginning to stare. Maybe a bit of privacy would be better…

"Come on," Lestrade said softly. "Let's go to Mycroft's office."

John let the detective inspector guide him down the long hallway to the office. From inside, they could hear Mycroft arguing with the police officers that were still investigating the scene.

"You cannot seriously be suggesting that I just left the safe unlocked."

Donovan's voice carried through the hallway. "I'm sorry, sir, but there's no other explanation."

"Then you obviously have not looked closely enough."

"Look for yourself then," she retorted. "The lock hasn't been broken—nothing's been broken, actually—and there are no traces of anyone's fingerprints but yours on the keypad."

The office went quiet as John and Lestrade entered. John went straight for the chair in front of Mycroft's desk without making eye contact with anyone in the room. Lestrade approached the safe where the elder Holmes and Donovan were standing.

Mycroft turned to examine the empty safe. "What exactly did you find when you arrived here, Inspector?"

Lestrade shifted. "Nothing. 'cept for the empty safe and the card inside that says 'Thank you, Mr. Holmes.' If all the money hadn't of been gone, it would've looked like you'd just left the safe open."

"And you checked the security footage, I'm sure?"

"Well, the thing about that is: there _is_ no security footage."

Mycroft turned to face the inspector. "Oh?"

"Yeah. From eight p.m. to one thirty a.m. there's nothing. It's just blank."

Mycroft's face darkened for a moment before he seemed to move on to a different train of thought. "Was a drug dog really necessary?"

Donovan laughed and Lestrade shot her a look before replying. "Yes. We had to be sure you two weren't analgized. We were hoping you wouldn't notice."

"Yes, the dog hair all over the carpet isn't noticeable at all," Mycroft replied coolly. He sniffed in the safe's general direction. "The dog didn't allow for any progress?"

"Nope. Didn't find a thing." Lestrade thought for a moment. "But come to think of it, he did start barking when you two got here."

Everyone except for John looked at the D.I.

"Please, Inspector," Mycroft said, "I would have noticed if either Doctor Watson or I had been administered a drug. For me not to have noticed, the drug would've needed to be untraceable, and—" He stopped mid-sentence and stood up straight. "Send in the dog."

Lestrade started. "What?"

"Send. In. The dog." Mycroft accentuated each syllable.

"But you just said—"

"With all due respect, Inspector, if you would like to get at least an hour of sleep before your morning shift, then do as I say and _send in the dog_." Mycroft hissed the last few words, and he began pacing the length of his office as Lestrade and Donovan hurried out of the room.

All the while, John sat in the chair facing the desk. Nothing that Lestrade or Mycroft had said made any sense to him. It had all sounded like hums and murmurs. Even now, as the remaining officers compared notes, their voices seemed to go in one ear and out the other. He felt so distant, so far from reality. His thoughts were cut short, though, when the French doors to Mycroft's office burst open. Through them came a large, black dog that was tugging violently at its leash. Instantly, the dog began barking ferociously at John. It charged at the doctor, snapping its thin leash in half. John didn't have a chance to think as his army reflexes kicked in, and he jumped out of the chair, taking a fighting stance and bracing himself for the weight of the dog to slam into him. But before the dog reached him, the officers tackled and restrained it with a thicker leash and a muzzle and held it tight.

"Jesus, John, what are you carrying?" Lestrade demanded of the army doctor as he watched the dog attempt to charge at John again.

"Nothing! I don't know," John replied, exasperated.

"Well take off your jacket. Let's find out."

John unzipped his jacket and handed it to Lestrade. As he did so, the envelope from earlier that night fell to the floor, and the dog immediately lunged towards it. Lestrade cast John's jacket aside and snatched up the envelope from the floor.

"What is this?" he nearly shouted.

John swallowed, knowing the detective inspector wouldn't believe the truth. "It's—I—it's something Mycroft was given. Official documents."

"Why's it got Sherlock's name on it?"

"They're brothers. It was family business."

"So then why was it in _your_ jacket pocket? And why did it set the dog off?" Lestrade was getting angry now. "Just tell me what the bloody thing is, John!"

Mycroft took a step forward. "Perhaps that would be best left for me to explain," he said.

All eyes turned towards the elder Holmes brother who was staring enigmatically at the envelope in Lestrade's hands.

"Remove the dog, Inspector, and dismiss the other officers. It would be unwise for them to stay in here for much longer."

Lestrade glared daggers at Mycroft then conceded his requests.

"Clear out," he ordered.

Without hesitation, the officers left, dragging the dog behind them. Lestrade, John, and Mycroft were the only ones who remained in the office. As soon as the door was shut, Lestrade held the envelope up and glowered at the government official.

"Now, are you gonna tell me what the hell this is?" he asked.

Mycroft took a deep breath. "All in good time. But first, would you like a drink, Inspector? John? I certainly need one before I revisit the incidents of this week."

As much as he hated to admit it, Lestrade was in desperate need of some liquor. Sighing, the D.I. laid the envelope down on the desk and took Mycroft up on his offer. Then he sat down in the other chair opposite Mycroft's desk, beside John who had gone silent again. Whilst pouring the drinks, Mycroft also picked up tweezers and a pair of rubber gloves from a different desk. Once he and Lestrade were both were settled, Mycroft stirred the conversation.

"I presume you would like to know the whole story?" he asked as he laid the tweezers on the desk, beside the envelope.

Lestrade took a swig of liquor. "If that's not too much to ask, yeah."

Mycroft sighed, sipping gingerly at his whiskey. "Are you familiar with Irene Adler? Hers was a case that my late brother worked on a few years ago. It was a bit of a…difficult undertaking on both national and personal levels."

Lestrade shifted in his chair. "Yeah, rings a bell. She was killed wasn't she? But John said something about her coming back…?"

"Yes… She was supposed to be beheaded in Karachi, but my brother managed to flee the country without my knowing and prevent her death."

Lestrade laughed. "You're kidding, right?"

"Unfortunately not, Inspector," Mycroft droned as he put on the gloves.

"Alright…" Lestrade said slowly, "but what's that have to do with this?"

Mycroft adopted a weary expression about his face. "Miss Adler came to see me a week ago today and informed me that my brother was very much alive and well. She said that, in exchange for European money and her 'protection,' she would provide me with Sherlock's exact location tonight and the time that he would arrive there."

"But that's absurd. Sherlock _died._"

"That is what I thought. But then she showed me proof: pictures, photographs, snapshots of him all across the country." His eyes darted to the envelope. "And I believed every word she said." Mycroft was silent for a moment, letting the drama of the evening sink in. Finally, he continued. "Then I notified John," he said, and John's ears pricked up at the mention of his name. "I gave him an elongated account of my visit with Miss Adler, and I presented him with the evidence in that envelope. He, too, was captivated by it and did not doubt for one second that any of it was fake or that I had been provided with false information."

_Fake_. That word cut John like a knife. Sherlock had called himself a fake just before he—before he—

Lestrade turned to look at the doctor. "Is that true, John?" he asked, pulling John from his thoughts.

John coughed. "Yes. Yeah, it's true," he said without making eye contact.

The D.I. turned back to Mycroft. "So how did she get access to all of this...stuff?" he asked, gesturing to the closed envelope.

"That is trivial—not of any great importance. What does matter is how she so easily convinced both Doctor Watson and I that Sherlock Holmes, who has been dead now for three years, was alive. And what's more, that John and I should drive to Coventry in the middle of the night to search for him—at a _church_ of all places."

"That does sound a bit dodgy," Lestrade agreed. If he wasn't so tired and if the matter wasn't so serious, he might have laughed at the whole situation. A Holmes brother outsmarted—that wasn't something that happened every day. "But the envelope," he said, going back to business. "What's in the envelope other than pictures and papers and what have you?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "If I am correct," he said, "one of the most dangerous drugs in the world. Cover your mouths, Doctor Watson, Inspector."

They obliged, and Mycroft took the tweezers in hand and carefully opened the envelope. He then slid the instrument inside and pulled out each of the photographs one by one. After the last photograph had been removed, Mycroft tilted the envelope over it, and, to both John and Lestrade's astonishments, a small stream of white powder trickled out and collected into a pile. Mycroft leaned back in his chair, a grimace plastered on his face. "_Burundanga_," he said. "Scopolamine. Or, in more colloquial terms, the Devil's Breath."

At the mention of the drug, both Lestrade and John's faces fell. As a medical man, John was familiar with scopolamine because small doses of it were commonly used to treat nausea caused by anesthesia in surgery patients. Lestrade, on the other hand, recognized the drug as one of the most illegal substances in the drug-dealing community. Both men, however, knew that its effects on people in large quantities added up to much more than a bit not good.

Mycroft took a deep breath. "_Burundanga _is a drug of similar complexion to cocaine, though I daresay it is not at all recreational. It is made from the flowers and the roots of borrachero trees, which grow wildly in Colombia, and is commonly referred to among the Colombian population as a drug used for 'mind control' because when administered, its victims become mindless—they do whatever they are told without argument or question. But," he held up a finger, "the victims appear and act normal, as if nothing is wrong. This makes it exceedingly easy for one to victimize or rob another, as the one controlling the drug can quite literally make the person he is robbing do it for him."

"So, what, we were just walking zombies this whole time?" John asked hotly. He'd had enough of Mycroft's dramatics. He needed to know what was going on.

Mycroft raised a cool eyebrow. "In a matter of speaking, yes."

"But you didn't ingest it, did you?" Lestrade asked. "You couldn't have."

"No, but in this case ingestion is not necessary. All one has to do for the scopolamine to take effect is inhale the air surrounding it. That is why the children of Colombia are warned to never fall asleep under the trees with white and yellow flowers." He ran a finger over one of the other photographs, leaving behind a shiny streak amidst the cloudy surface from where the powder had settled. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, examining the particles as a few grains of the drug fluttered to the desk. "It is virtually undetectable."******

Lestrade leaned forward in his chair. "And you're sure that's what this is?"

"I am certain. Its effects on Doctor Watson and I as well as its obvious resemblance to cocaine is more than enough to deduce that. It would certainly explain the lack of security footage and foreign fingerprints, as she would have convinced me to open the safe for her and shut off the surveillance system, though I cannot remember it." He took a sip of whiskey. "It seems to me that she was also wearing _oudh _when we last met…"

Lestrade cocked his head. "_Oudh_?"

"An ingredient used to make perfume that is wildly popular in Colombia."

"Ah. Wonder how she got that in Pakistan… I guess she knows a perfumer."

Mycroft smiled petulantly. "Or knows what he likes."

No one said anything for a few tense moments. Then, Lestrade raked his hand through his hair and stood up.

"Look, I need some air," he said, setting his empty glass on the desk. "I'm stepping outside for a minute. Get rid of that stuff while I'm gone, alright?" The detective inspector walked briskly out of the office, haphazardly closing the French doors behind him.

Mycroft and John sat in solemn silence, staring at the photographs laced with scopolamine. Without a drugged mind, it was easy to see that the pictures had been edited. Someone had gone to a great trouble to first find snapshots of Sherlock and then to edit them all into other photographs of various churches. It was no easy feat, as Sherlock was wearing neither his signature Belstaff coat nor his blue scarf in any of the places he was 'seen.'

Mycroft drained the remainder of his whiskey and then began to collect the scopolamine in the envelope. John stared absently at his hands while the elder Holmes disposed of the drug in the toilet adjacent to his office and came back to his chair. All the while, John's unspoken self-accusations thundered in his mind:

Why had he let himself believe even for a second that Sherlock was alive? Why had he been so naïve, so stupid as to let himself be convinced that it wasn't all a trick? He knew very well now that it had been nothing but a scam—a clever, drawn-out scam to rob one of the wealthiest men in the country. And he had fallen for it. He'd fallen for it because he missed his friend. _Sentiment_, Sherlock would say. John looked up and stared sightlessly out of the window. The sky was just beginning to turn a pale blue. A new day would be starting soon.

_Zendagi migzara. _

He sighed a disheveled sigh. He was supposed to be past this by now. Even his calendar wanted him to move on. But how could he? How could he possibly return to life pre-Sherlock when Sherlock had been his life for the past six years? He had felt so _alive_ running through London alleyways in the middle of the night and chasing down criminals as they fled for their freedom. It had been so gratifying to feel like he was doing something for the world after he had been decommissioned from Afghanistan. He had felt like he was still useful, like he was still needed. But now he was _being_ used. And there was nothing he could do about it.

"He's really gone," John finally said, his voice soft.

Mycroft bowed his head. His reply was almost inaudible. "I'm sorry, John."

"No," John darkly laughed. "No, that won't cut it. You said you were 'sorry' when you told Moriarty all about—" He winced at the memory and closed his eyes. "Your own _brother, _Mycroft. Does that actually _mean_ anything to you? That you _killed your own brother_?" Suddenly, John was livid. All of the anger and hurt he'd kept bottled up for the past three years was now boiling, ready to explode at any second. He stood up, his bad leg throbbing under his weight. "You know what? I'll answer that for you: No. Of course it doesn't matter. Nothing _matters. _'Caring is not an advantage,' remember? What the hell does that even mean?!"

"John, I—"

"You what? You didn't meanfor any of this to happen? You didn't _mean _to _lie_ to me just like you didn't _mean _to give Sherlock's life story to a madman?"

"Please, John, just listen—"

"No, _you_ listen to _me_!" John roared. "You might not _care _to hear this, but Sherlock was my _best friend. _And it _killed_ me to watch him fall—to see him dead on the pavement. But you know what's worse? That I got over it. I _finally _got over it and started to live normally, but _you_," he snarled, pointing his finger vehemently at Mycroft, _"you_ pulled me right back. Because of you, I let myself hope for just a _second_ that I was wrong and that Sherlock was alive. I let myself expect to _see _him and _talk _to him and even punch him in the bloody face 'cause that's what he deserves. Me, on the other hand, I don't have a clue what I did to deserve this. What the hell did I ever do to _you_ that made you think doing this to _me_ would ever be OK?!" John's breath came rapidly. He was shaking all over with rage. There was so much more that he wanted to say, but he couldn't put his anger into words. "I hope this isn't your sick idea of a joke," he spat, "because I'm sure not laughing."

At that moment, Lestrade came back in the office. He looked despondently at John and gestured to the open door.

"Come on, John," he said with quiet authority. "Let's get you home."

_Home._ He hadn't been home in three years; home certainly wasn't his lonely apartment or his work at the surgery.

No, home was running around London. Home was finding a head in the fridge. Home was sitting in his favourite chair, sipping tea and talking to his best friend. Home was with Sherlock.

He needed to go home.

* * *

*** I'm basing all of this geography-stuff off of Google Maps, so please correct me if I'm wrong or something doesn't make sense!  
****** Scopolamine is a serious issue in Colombia. I found it interesting to research, and I watched the half-hour documentary on this website to learn about it: /worlds-scariest-drug/**


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